Mom on the Run
I have already had this conversation with Carlos, so I’m all set when he walks up to greet Dave, as Dave and I stand and chat between sets. It’s a regular weekday afternoon, and Manland – the free weights room at the gym – is bustling.
“Hey, Dave, look, UnderArmour is going to have to start paying Carlos to wear his clothes, he makes them look so good.” I parrot back to Dave the compliment that Carlos gave himself just a little while ago.
Carlos, hearing, grins widely at my remark. “Hey, check it out, look at this,” and he walks up close to the seated row bench where I’ve been working out. Carlos raises his right foot to the bench, rests his elbow on his knee, and lifts his fist to beneath his chin. He adopts a serious half-smile and gazes ahead, striking his best male model pose.
“See,” I point out to Dave, grinning at Carlos’s hamming it up, “his shirt, it matches his pants!” It cracks me up when guys in Manland match their clothes; they are such girls in here! Luckily Carlos recognizes the humor in the situation, and doesn’t take offense at my laughing at him. His new shirt is bright royal blue, with black patterned sleeves and the same pattern on side panels.
The funny part is that they match the shorts – black, with the same black patterned side panels, designed to line up with his shirt. The ensemble looks like it came straight out of a catalog, or off a mannequin, and that just makes me laugh. Big brawny weightlifters, the most macho men imaginable, buying outfit sets? Spending time picking out flattering, trendy clothes? Ha ha ha!
Dave looks Carlos up and down. “Nice,” he says. But then he waves at Carlos’s feet: “What about your shoes, man?”
“I know!” I jump in, agreeing. “That’s the same thing I said!” Because Carlos is decked out in peacock blue and black, but his shoes are gray. Just blah gray. They don’t match at all. They’re so off that even Dave noticed!
“Yeah,” Carlos says, shaking his head sadly. “I should have gone with my yellow shoes. I thought these would match better, blue and gray, you know, but I guess not.” We all three stare down at Carlos’s shoes. I also shake my head sadly, tut-tutting.
“Well, now you know,” I offer. “Next time.” The gray sneakers are just too dull to be matched with the flashy shirt and pattern. Carlos’s regular shoes, bright yellow, his favorite color, would have been a better pairing.
“You got the socks, though,” eagle-eyed Dave offers, softening the blow of the sneaker criticism. I look, too: sure enough, just peeking above the shoes, on Carlos’s ankles, black UnderArmour socks. I nod, agreeing with Dave: the socks match! And then, kindest of all, Dave, looking back up, sweeping over the whole outfit, clinches it: “You look great. I wish I had your body.”
“Aw, really?” Carlos says. He smiles, and he brings up his right arm, flexes it, and we all look at his biceps. Then he brings both arms in, curves his hands in front of his stomach, and flexes his chest. Dave and I both watch.
Then, realizing his comment sounded strange, “Well, your biceps, anyway,” Dave amends, “definitely.” And I stand there, watching these two huge bulgy weightlifting men preen and compare and talk about clothes, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing about the crazy place that is Manland. Again.
